Lyrec Page 13

  He returned to his work, lived his quiet life again, and devoted himself to raising his daughter. The village breathed a sigh of relief. They were magical, but they could not reach out to a man who had shut himself off.

  In some deep recess of his mind he cursed the powers of his race for their inability to save his wife. He had stopped using his own the day she died, and never tried them again in the nine years that followed. However, there was a spark of wisdom in him that kept him from curbing his daughter’s use of hers. She appeared to have an instinct for reaching out to the source of magic for all Kobachs, for touching and shaping it. She had incredible potential, as he told anyone who would come by, and she needed no emblem written into her skin to prove this; but Malchavik was from an old family, as his wife had been, and he believed that the Kobachs should wear their heritage proudly. So he had etched upon her forehead a simple flower in dark blue lines. Pavra, his flower.

  Seeing her asleep on her straw bed, his longing became. a terrible ache. It hurt to be with her just then, with his wife’s ghost so near. So without waking her, he dressed and stole out into the night.

  The sky was overcast. A chill on the air awoke him. He decided to wander down to the river, there to sit and reminisce and talk to his wife’s spirit. From the dark side street he could see the quay ahead—the oddly geometrical lines of boats and barges moored there; poles pointing into the sky, waiting for someone to take them and use them. Two cats darted across his path and disappeared around a corner. He heard one of them growl. Beyond the back of the buildings, the path to the quay extended along the top of an artificial dike built to keep the quay accessible during the spring floods.

  When he heard the sound, Malchavik had reached the middle of the dike. Like a large slab of tile shattering on stone—like that, but not that. He stopped and looked back at the sleeping village. Probably those stupid cats, he thought, but continued to survey and identify the darkness.

  If clouds had not sealed in the valley so utterly, he might have seen the edge of the village and, farther down the river, the bridge much more clearly. He wondered if there was a storm brewing—the cloud cover was so thick. But the air did not smell right for rain.

  He was about to turn back toward the quay when a light appeared. It was next to the first few buildings nearest the bridge, a small red glow that vanished for a second, then reappeared. Hot coals and someone moving around them. Who could possibly be up this late and cleaning out their hearth? Anyone else in Ukobachia might have probed in that direction to “hear” the person’s identity, but Malchavik had given that up. He set off toward the curious glow.

  Before he had reached flat land again, the coals ignited. A bright flame rose up, bobbing about. A torch! Malchavik’s heart began to pound. He hurried along the path. A second torch ignited. Then the buildings were between him and the lights, and all he could see were insidious shadows. He would have headed straight for the light but, at the end of the alley ahead, three torch-bearing figures darted past. He called out to them and ran between the buildings and into the road. The figures disappeared into the darkness, and he was casting a long, wavering shadow. He swung about to find flames licking up the walls of two buildings.

  The sight of the fire was so horrible that for a few precious moments he could not move or think what to do. Release came in the knowledge that someone had set the fires—the figures that had run past him. He bolted into the center of the road, shouting, “Up! Up! Fire! Assassins in the village, wake you all!” He sensed motion behind him, started to turn; his closed-off abilities, opening through panic, warned him of imminent danger, and he raised his arm to catch the thing coming at him, but only managed to slow it down. The club struck him above the ear and he crumpled to the ground.

  Shouts, screams and the ringing of a bell all jumbled together in Malchavik’s half-conscious state. Some village was burning, but it was far removed from him and too much trouble to devote much time to. Something scraped near his head and he muttered, “Pavra,” and opened his eyes.

  A bare foot pointed at him, light rippling over it. Fire. He was rolled onto his back and a voice called to him. A bearded face hung over him. He knew that face, if he could just put a name to it. He was drawn up to a sitting position. The face wore a look of terror. Why was the man afraid of him? Had he been drunk again? His eyes focused beyond the man, on flames shooting up as high as trees. Pavra…

  “Pavra!” he wailed suddenly and wrestled to be free of the man’s grip. He twisted his head to see his shop and house—to see them shaped by fire. Throwing himself free, he tried to crawl along the ground, but the man with the beard stopped him and sat him up again.

  “Malchavik, what happened?” The alarm bell stopped ringing then. Somewhere nearby, something crashed.

  “Assassins…with torches, to kill us in our sleep.” He raised watering eyes to his house again. “Oh, gods, is she safe? Do you know if she got out?”

  “It’s chaos, Malchavik. I haven’t any idea.” The bearded man released him and stood up. Malchavik concentrated past the fierce pain in his head and retrieved the man’s name. “Stachem,” he said, “help me up. Take me to my home.”

  Stachem obeyed, helping him to his feet. The roof of the tailor shop fell in and a wall twisted and collapsed on top of it. “You have no home,” Stachem said.

  Malchavik began to shiver. His voice whined in his throat. He closed his eyes and concentrated. From Stachem he borrowed strength and will, driving back the shock, erasing from the forefront of his thoughts the knowledge of his daughter’s fate. His lips parted, curled. “Come,” he ordered. His first steps were unsteady, but became surer as he went. Around him people ran in desperate panic. He sent his thoughts to some of them, and the calmness, the certainty, gave them control and direction. They lost their panic and followed him.

  He choked from the smells that the smoke carried. His eyes stung. But he walked on, gaining strength from the growing circle of people around him.

  There was only one place the assassins could go.

  *****

  Five figures stood in the center of the wide bridge. At either end, blocking them, were citizens of Ukobachia. All parties were armed, holding one another at bay with torches and clubs. At the far end were guards from the pass who’d come running at the first sign of fire. They had sealed off the bridge. Those at this end had seen the torch-wielding brigade from Trufege escaping and given chase. Only five members of that brigade had been forced by circumstance to use the main bridge. The rest had escaped on the rope bridge that had allowed them access to Ukobachia.

  Malchavik and his collected citizens pushed through the guards. The five men on the bridge were strangers to him; but one was a priest, and Malchavik could tell that he was the leader.

  The priest assumed from the audience who followed him that Malchavik must be a town leader, and addressed him patronizingly. “We’re passing through here on church business. It’s imperative you allow us continue to Trufege. We will sound the alarm there and have help sent to you.”

  Malchavik looked at the clubs and torches he priest’s party carried. He laughed in the priest’s face. “Is the incineration of so many innocents a scheme of the church these days? Did Voed come down and tell you to kill us in our sleep?” He took another step toward the priest. “That sounds like the work of men to me, unless the gods have become dastards.”

  “You blaspheme! Take care with your words,” warned Varenukha.

  “I will use far worse things than words before morning.” He faced his people. More of them had arrived. He looked through their minds, found no knowledge of his daughter‘s whereabouts. No one had seen her. No one had saved her. Tears rimmed his eyes, but he denied the urge to give up. Some of the village still lived. People had survived. He reached out to those nearest. They clasped his hands, their own trembling, he gripped them hard, imparting his resolve physically as he did mentally. They in turn reached out to others who linked hands with them and then to others still,
until the entire group had become one closed chain.

  The five from Trufege didn’t know what the linking of hands meant—what they knew of Kobachs was founded on lies and legends that rarely contained more than a kernel of truth—but the priest could sense this was not in his favor. He grabbed a torch from one of his dumbfounded villagers. He raised the torch, intending to fling it at the Kobachs blocking the bridge, hoping to create a panic situation in which he could escape. Even if he had to throw the four others with him to the witches, he would escape.

  The torch sputtered and died.

  Varenukha lowered and then dropped it. He said, “Quick, into the water!” and took one step toward the rail himself.

  Suddenly he could not breathe and his legs would not obey him. He heard his men begin to cough and choke. The furthest man back stumbled away and tried to make for the end of the bridge. Varenukha saw him jerk rigid. The body snapped like a dry stick and fell to the ground. It flopped there, gasping like some dying fish. Varenukha felt as much as heard a pop in his nose. Warm blood trickled down his lip. He clawed at his throat, grabbed the flesh beneath his chin and tried to pull his throat open.

  From far away came a strange animal cry. The pressure on Varenukha’s throat relaxed and he collapsed in the center of the bridge.

  “Look there,” shouted one of the Kobach sentries, who had broken the chain to point. They all stared up at the sky. Varenukha tilted his head to see what they were looking at. The strange animal ululation was repeated and then answered from further off. A swift, winged shadow plunged into one of the burning buildings; but the Kobachs were watching something above that. He saw a second huge shape descending toward a burning house at the edge of Ukobachia. “How’s it possible?” someone asked. No one could answer. Varenukha forgot the ebbing pain in his throat.

  The firelight clearly defined it. The thing had bulging eyes and great leathery wings. Its arms were short, the legs long and tightly muscled, ending in splayed talons. Varenukha could not believe what he saw. It was a shape out of legend, a mythical nightmare. Someone named it even as the word took form in his mind: “Krykwyre.” The monster entered the flames as the first one had done. A third emerged from the clouds beyond the village, visible only as a shiny speck. It circled the river briefly. It didn’t dive for a building, but hovered. In another moment they knew why. Uttering its shrill cry, the krykwyre dove toward the bridge.

  “Run!” The other Kobachs released hands and scattered back to the road. They turned from their vanquished town, vanished into the valley forest—all but Malchavik. The krykwyre scared him as much as any of them, but he no longer cared if he died this night. He was going to take revenge for his daughter’s death.

  The priest was getting to his knees as fast as he could and trying to crab his way to the side of the bridge. The way was open now. Those guarding the far side had run away, too.

  Malchavik lowered his head, formed his anger and misery into a weapon.

  An invisible hand grabbed the priest and dragged him down in the center of the bridge. Varenukha looked up and saw the one Kobach who had not fled. “What are you doing?” he cried. “It’s coming for us!” The monster screeched, and Varenukha screamed out at the same time, as if in answer. His back arched and his tongue rimmed his mouth. His wide eyes stared helplessly at the monster swooping nearer with every beat of its wings. He could make out the details in its shape now. He tried to reach out to the old man, to plead. The Kobach came near, but the pain did not subside. It only grew worse.

  Sweat ran down Malchavik’s face. His skin was ashen from the effort. He was aging years with every moment, but he would not stop now. Bending down, he reached out, placed one hand on each of the priest’s legs below the knee. The pain in Varenukha’s upper body stopped abruptly. But in the same instant a new searing agony made him buck and writhe. His hand swiped vainly at the Kobach. The air blackened, thickened. Then the pain ceased.

  Malchavik released his hold and limped, wheezing, as quickly as he could to the railing. With a last ragged look back at the priest, he said, “For…my daughter,” then pulled himself under the top rail and dropped into the river.

  Varenukha tried to sit, but could not make his feet move or brace him.

  The monster extended its legs as it swooped.

  Varenukha rolled onto his side, then flipped himself up into a sitting position. He grabbed hold of his thigh to hold himself up. He felt along his legs. They were like eels. The bones between his knee and ankle had melted! He could not stand. He looked for help, but all of his men lay dead or dying on the bridge, killed by the Kobachs’ power. The monster shrieked as it struck. Varenukha glanced up, then threw himself flat. Black talons slashed the air above him. He dug his hands into the dirt and pulled himself toward the railing.

  The krykwyre circled above him again.

  Varenukha clawed at the railing, fingers shredding with splinters that he hardly felt as he strained and caught hold of an upright, slapped his other hand around it, hauling himself toward escape in the safety of the water as enormous wings reverberated like the heartbeat of the night. He did not have to look back to see the greenish gray scales, the yellow globular eyes with pin-prick pupils and the talons clicking in angry anticipation; he knew it was there and pulled all the harder for it.

  With one arm under the railing, he was caught.

  He screamed and tugged madly, glancing wildly back to find no talons, but his robes caught on a broken board. He whined and ripped it free, and then turned to slip beneath the rail. He saw his reflection staring up at him from the dark security of the river, and he threw himself forward to join it, even as the talons of the diving krykwyre punctured his sides and split him open in an instant like the tail of a shellfish.

  *****

  The icy river shocked Malchavik to alertness, granting him strength through fear. The current propelled him along and down. He let it carry him, and, when it slackened, he kicked his way to the surface. He came up not far from the bank, and he swam there as fast as he could. Reaching the shallows, he staggered onto the bank and collapsed. His body quaked with each deep-drawn gasp. He lay there forever.

  The bridge and the land rising to meet it blocked his view of the dying village, but the hidden flames illuminated great crowning chimneys of smoke that reached into the clouds. And as if smoke could condense and ascend with sentience, the gray-green krykwyres rose out of it. They each carried a blackened, sometimes burning, corpse.

  Malchavik stood cautiously. He stumbled up the bank until he could see the entire scene. He could not believe what he beheld. They had been portrayed in dozens, perhaps hundreds, of illuminated stories and tapestries across the land; he had even once witnessed a festival in Dolgellum in which a celebrant had come dressed as one. He recalled his mother’s words from when he was a child: “They wait outside to claim your body and take your soul to Mordus, who owns you in death, for they will eat you when they catch you. Now, go to sleep.”

  He laughed at the memory, which started him coughing. It was impossible that these things were real—monsters hidden for all these many years in the Grymwyre Mountains? Impossible. And yet…

  He stared at his burning village. Then something else caught his attention and he glanced into the sky. The dark cloud that had settled over the valley was spinning like an inverted whirlpool. It reflected none of the firelight, was in fact so dark that he had not seen it before. He strained his eyes—it seemed that far down in that swirling hole lay a tiny ball of fire, larger than a star, but not so big or bright as a moon.

  Malchavik ducked back down and considered what he had seen. His disbelief was gone—this was something beyond anything he understood. He needed to talk with others of his kind; he had to go after them. That meant he had to cross the bridge again. He edged along the bank until he reached the corner of the first plank, then raised his head to ensure that no scaled horror lurked about there—and stared straight into the face of death.

  Varenukha’s eyes l
ooked past him and beyond life itself. His dark tongue dangled from his mouth, licking the boards. The head had been ripped from the body and the body had disappeared. A great dark smear across the boards showed where it had been. Malchavik looked down the length of the bridge and saw that all the other bodies had vanished, too. The bridge was empty. Using the railing for support, he climbed up.

  The krykwyres had lifted the corpses of Ukobachia out of the flames, up into the sky, but had not carried them away. Upon the quay, Malchavik saw bodies stacked, placed there by the monsters. Among the smoldering corpses a bright white figure walked. A total of four krykwyres—the last just settling on the quay with another corpse—towered over the figure, but were apparently under its direction. They all stood back from it. A soft purling sound came to Malchavik. The white figure grew incandescent. Around it, slowly, one by one, the bodies rose into the air and sped toward the hole in the center of the cloud. They tumbled faster and faster, whirling around the outside of the vast whirlpool before shooting into its center one after the other. Malchavik unconsciously stood up, realizing that one of those bodies had to be Pavra. What would happen to her? Why was she being taken away? He took a step across the bridge, then saw what he was doing and stopped. He could hardly go chasing down to the quay. No. Pavra was dead. What he had to do now was get to his people and perform the proper ritual so that her soul was protected. So that all their souls were protected. The white creature out there on the quay could take only her body. It would never own the soul of his little child with the flower on her head…

  He hugged the rail and began to cry.

  His world had come apart. Death had invaded it. Death from the skies. He raised his head. Was he witnessing the presence of a god? Could the figure on the quay be Mordus himself? Malchavik wiped his eyes and looked again down the river.